A Question You’d Never Ask Me

“So… how was your date?”

Dearest Rachel –

I’m pretty sure you actually did ask that very question once or twice, but it was directed at Daniel rather than myself, obviously. He’s had a couple of girlfriends (and friends who were girls; there’s a difference, as you know), and been on a few dates with them. Curiously, he hasn’t been on anything like that since your departure; I’d like to say those two things aren’t connected, but one can’t help but draw conclusions some times.

As for me, any dates I might have gone on back when you were around were and would have been with you in the first place, so there would have been no need to ask about them. I might imagine how, some day in our mid-eighties, we might come home after a night out, and you would turn to me and ask, “So… how was our date?” because you’d have forgotten about it (or maybe to mock the fact that you hadn’t come down with the dementia that seemed to run in the female side of your family yet), but that’s no longer an issue for us to converse about.

So there’s something particularly strange about telling you what happened, such as it did. But if I don’t, it’s going to escape my mind completely, and while it doesn’t really look like the stuff of a good “how I met Megumi” story, it is what it is, and, given the open-ended nature of it all, deserves to be at least written down about.

***

My concerns from this morning notwithstanding, I managed to get a decent morning’s worth of ‘work’ in, and the fitness center was open for business by the time I got there. I even managed to burn enough calories so that I was a full kilogram below the 250-pound barrier I keep trying to break through. Although, considering that tonight’s was to be a dinner date, that wasn’t going to hold (not that I’m about to go check until at least morning).

I had told myself that I ought to be by the fountain in Harmony Park no later than 4:30, in order to ensure that I was there if she was to arrive before our appointed meeting time of 5:00 pm. This little self-imposed deadline wasn’t enough to get me to do any better than leaving the house by 4:30, however, and I even had to drop a few things in the post box on the way, delaying myself that much further. The hunt for a parking spot wasn’t exactly quick, either, but with all that having been said, I was there before she arrived regardless, so everything was all good in that regard; I accomplished what I needed to.

However, she was the one who spotted me, rather than the other way around, which was mildly embarrassing. Then again, I was facing the intersection, rather than the parking garage from whence she would have come, so that was understandable. On the other hand, with that in mind, I really should have faced that direction instead.

I gestured around me at the various restaurants in the area. “Welcome to Arlington Heights,” I greeted her, explaining that I didn’t want to limit her to a single option if she had issues with one or another. Between Ellen’s gluten avoidance and Daniel’s hatred of seafood, I’ve learned long ago that sometimes you have to provide alternatives. And, no surprise, she managed to surprise me.

“Anywhere but Italian.”

Erin would be mightily disappointed in her. For my part, I’m hoping that was just a case of not feeling like it today as opposed to being against the stuff in general, myself.

She added another proviso; “Somewhere quiet, so we can talk.” Of course, that could only be managed on a relative basis, but I figured that would safely rule out the several pubs in particular. So I offered the one Mexican place a couple doors down (not being familiar with the one situated in the ground floor of the local theatre), and she agreed. There was even an alleyway between the restaurant and the neighboring shop, just secluded enough that it might afford a little more conversational clarity than most of the outdoor seating.

After being guided to the table, I went to pull out a chair for her, only to watch as she sat down in the opposite chair under the assumption that I had chosen the seat for myself. One more example of how the rules of engagement have changed since when we were dating – and I actually commented as such. I realize and accept the one about not picking the girl up from home, but certain other niceties like getting their chair, and picking up the check (more on that later) are still not how I would prefer them to be.

In retrospect, I wonder if it’s not a case of me being upset about her not really needing me for such things. I think I want to be needed, and women as a rule don’t want to need anyone. It would explain why dating is so difficult (at least for me). Anyway, this isn’t an insight I came to while I was out with her, and it’s probably just as well.

As I mentioned in my last letter, I didn’t expect anything out of this date, not even so much as a hug or kiss. This was meant to be a “getting to know you” sort of experience, to understand where each of us came from, as it were. Granted, this left me at a bit of a disadvantage, as I was something of a toad in the well compared to her. She had moved from Seoul to Tucson to Champaign-Urbana to Deerfield before finally moving in with her parents here in town to take care of them as their sole single child (It crossed my mind, but I didn’t raise the question for several reasons, as to whether her parents might object to her dating, since they could potentially lose their filial caretaker). Whereas, for my part, I had spent all my life on one side of town or the other, with the only interruption being my four years in college. She had missionary trips (and some of the attendant misadventures that go with them, including some enduring stomach problems from eating in certain ways while on them) in her past, while most of my service is right here in town. She works as a music teacher just within the city limits, while I’m volunteering out of my ‘office’ in my parent’s basement. Still, apart from one lull, the conversation managed to run continuously through dinner (which I demolished, having only had breakfast, while she admitted to having had a late lunch, and had to box up about half of her meal).

She did, however, wonder about whether this was one of those Mexican places that offered fried ice cream for dessert, and I indicated that there was only one way to find out. We asked for the menu, and lo and behold, there it was. She ordered it, while I ordered a chocolate cake that was listed as ‘de Abuelita’ (literally, ‘of little grandma’); this was amusing insofar as the main course I’d ordered was listed as something like ‘Bistec de Abuela’ (‘Grandma’s steak’). I’ve heard that one is never recommended to eat at a place called “Mom’s,” but that doesn’t preclude ordering an item from the menu that claims to be “just like Grandma used to make.”

However, as with the meal, she couldn’t finish the ice cream either, and since she admitted to subscribing to your dictum of ‘never waste food’ (you would be so pleased), she had this half-eaten softball-sized orb wrapped up as well. This also meant, unfortunately, that we had to cut things short, so she could get that home before it melted.

Of course, there was now the question of the bill, which she insisted on paying her portion. After dealing with Erin so many times – and understanding, if not particularly liking, the new rules – I was accustomed to this, especially on a first date; there shouldn’t be any expectation of a form of quid pro quo, after all. But at first (well, maybe at second, since we were initially handed the bill from another table that required us to flag down the waitress and explain the situation – even if I was permitted to pay the tab in full, I wasn’t about to pay for three soft drinks we never received, among many other things), she insisted on splitting the table fifty-fifty. Here, I drew the line. Paying for herself, I can accept, if grudgingly. Subsidizing my part of the bill, I’ll not have that. I made sure that the waitress knew which items were to be charged to me, and we took care of things accordingly soon after.

After walking her to the parking garage, I offered to give her my number, before realizing that she was carrying a bag of leftovers, some of which were melting. I promised to send it to her by email (which I have since sent), so we can arrange another chance to meet once she returns from visiting her sister and her niece in Seattle next week and into July.

Is this anything more than an opportunity to go out with someone? I don’t know; I think it’s too soon to tell. I won’t say I was captivated, but I wasn’t disappointed, either. We’ll have to see where this goes. At least, there’s still a future, such as there is.

So for now, keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.